Self-Lovin' Ch. 01

It was cold outside. The December night air seeped between the cracks in the log home. Sandra Jean Leone, a house slave, snuggled up under a thick quilt. She shivered until her body heat, radiating inside the quilt, warmed her little cocoon. She could hear the mumbled voices of the white Leone's thru the thick logs of the big house, laughing and celebrating. Despite their shortcomings, they were a close family. They loved one another. Only the smidgen of Negro blood in her veins kept her separate from the revelers on the other side of the wall.

Sandra reflected on her day. Like the other female house slaves, she'd contributed mightily to the late dinner now being consumed by the white Leone's. She'd reaped and prepared the garden vegetables. She'd personally killed and plucked several chickens. She'd help prepare the dinner table. And at the end of her long day, she wasn't invited to dine. She hadn't expected to be.

Now she lay in her bed thinking of ways to cast off the spiritual detritus of her servitude. The young woman sighed. This was her life.

When Sandra's cocoon warmed sufficiently, she rolled from her fetal position and stretched out full length onto her back. It was time to perform.

She allowed her imagination to drift aloft into a dream world of her own making, a world wholly apart from the dreary reality of slavery on a farm. This was Sandra's nightly ritual.

In her mind's eye she saw herself naked at the wooded spring, performing her water dance in the crystalline depths, worshiping at the feet of Creation. She was weightless, angelic in aquatic ballet, golden, beautiful, more a whisper of nature than an appendage of same. Her curly hair drifted wistfully from her scalp and her pubic triangle. Her breasts pouted daintily. A beatific light proceeded from her body. And all God's creation applauded her performance with song.

She essayed a triple back flip, gracefully drawing her right foot up to her left knee and sweeping end over end, using her hands as rudders. She dribbled air bubbles from her nostrils to maintain neutral buoyancy; otherwise the air pockets in her capacious lungs would force her to drift aloft.

Sandra rolled into an Iron Cross, in which she formed her body into a crucifix, arms extended perpendicular to her torso, toes arrowed straight down. She held herself rigid in this position, body angled at sixty degrees from the vertical, until the weight of her muscular frame superceded her lift and she began to founder.

From here she jackknifed into a triple forward header, rolled upright, then quivered her ankles together in a powerful soubresaut that rocketed her skyward. A full moon illuminated the glade. Sandra could see it glimmering directly above the surface of the spring as she ascended. When she breached the surface she pirouetted, drew a full breath and slid back into her worship in the depths.

Something caught her eye. Something above was out of place.

Sandra abandoned her dance. She trickled to the surface, breaching without causing a splash whisper, eyes fully open, focused on a shoreline shadow.

There!

A man stood where no man ought. Sandra subsumed the urge to flee. Who was it?

It was a black man in a smart soldier's uniform, carrying a long rifle. He stood at attention, as if guarding Sandra's private dance from intruders. Sandra thought she might recognize him. She frogkicked her way to shore.

Sandra emerged from the shallows like a stalking water cat, soundless, intense. Her uniformed sentinel had not moved, nor was he startled at her onset. She crept up to him in her nakedness. Water beaded from her golden skin as if from wax. She approached him in angles. At any moment she was poised to spring away into the safety of the pond. He made no move toward her, spoke no sound.

It was Charlie. She did know him after all.

She straightened and strode to face him. The faintest trace of a smile flickered across his lips.

"And have you come to worship with me?" she asked.

"I am," he replied.

"You cannot worship in this garb," she intoned.

"I am aware," he replied.

Sandra stepped back. Charlie lay down his rifle. He unhooked his soldier's cap, unbuttoned his coat, stepped out of his boots. He folded his clothing neatly on the shoreline. Soon, he was as naked as she.

"Come," she said.

He followed her into the inky depths. They frogkicked out to the center of the spring, pausing to ventilate their lungs. Charlie knew what to do. Sandra didn't have to coach. He took her hand. They jack-knifed in tandem and slid into the maw of darkness, with only the silvery moonlight as witness.

Once submerged, they danced synchronously, mirroring each move perfectly, each feathery flicker signifying a point of worship, as if in oneness they offered up praise.

This Charlie had no problems with oxygen deprivation. They danced for five minutes, eight, even ten before slithering to the surface for air. Charlie even took the lead in their dancing, demonstrating precise moves for her to mimic.

A great warmth enveloped her. Her body began to shimmer with light, as did his, such that the darkness around them receded and only a core of lambent illumination remained. They were fireflies of the blackness. They could see the creatures of the deep at the edges of their glow looking on in wonder.

Now a new factor became evident. Sandra could see that her partner was aroused. His penis bulged like a lever from its position between his legs. His scrotum ballooned at its base. Yet he didn't have that glazed, catatonic leer that overwhelms men when their penises are depriving their brains of oxygenated blood. His look remained angelic, as if this erection were merely a natural by-product of their worship.

Sandra swam to face him. They drifted at mid-spring, neither rising nor sinking. They'd achieved symbiosis with the weight of water.

Sandra took his penis and slipped it into her vagina as if clicking a key into a lock. She wrapped her ankles around his calves.

And so they fucked, glowing bodies, weightless, enthralled by true mating dance of the spirit driven. His penis fit her perfectly. Charlie's opulent insertions wafted them aloft like a pair of conjoined jellyfish drifting with the tide. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him luxuriantly.

They were one.

Sandra stroked her clitoris erect through this portion of her nightly fantasy. Her curly pussy was sticky wet. More, Sandra's womanly aroma resonated silkily under the trapped heat of her quilt. She drew her fingers to her lips and took a lavish lick.

In the next instant, without any logical segue, Sandra and Charlie were fucking righteously atop his soldier's uniform at the water's edge. In this vision their romantic interlude dissipated before another, less tender, vision of sexual intercourse. She and Charlie attacked each other like animals. They fucked with the savage energy of pack dogs, in which the strongest dog, Charlie, won out and was taking out his aggression on his prize, Sandra, as her numerous defeated human suitors mewled and whined about, humping the air to alleviate unsatiated sexual tension.

He fucked her face to face, each of them snarling, biting lips and tongues, groping and howling. He fucked her from behind, slamming his thickness into both her holes as her head snapped back and forth under the impetus of his powerful thrusts. He fucked her standing up, with one of her ankles balanced on his shoulder and the other balancing her body, tippy-toe, on the ground. He ate her pussy, attempting to drive his head fully into her pinkness. Why not? He didn't need air. He could hold his breath for ten minutes. He turned her body upside down to lick her pussy while she sucked his dick, flickering his ankles to express his level of arousal. She could feel the tip of his nose sniffing her asshole as he probed her vagina with his tongue. He hoisted her aloft and fucked her face to face again, with her ass spread wide and the crooks of her knees resting in his arms. He shoved his cock down her throat and fed her with his semen. His penis dripped with an endless supply.

Sandra came time and again under the intensity of these erotic visions and the expertise of her vibrating middle finger. She had a dildo that she employed on occasion. Once she got past the jellyfish fantasy, however, she often found it an inconvenient reach. If the dildo wasn't already handy, Sandra's own exuberant visions served just as well. She often ended these masturbatory diversions by fisting herself. Hence, the dildo was, just as often, extraneous.

Some nights Sandra fainted while masturbating. She awakened many mornings to find her small fist wedged firmly up her cunt.